


Regret (does not a bad decision make)

by TimesBeingWhatTheyAre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Gen, M/M, hinted slash, the night before the rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimesBeingWhatTheyAre/pseuds/TimesBeingWhatTheyAre
Summary: “Are you afraid to die, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, his tone flippant and his smile easy.Enjolras looks steadily up at him from his seat beside him. “There is no need for fear,"Grantaire smiles slowly, his mouth forming into cruel lines that twist the corners of his eyes into mockery.“You did not say no,”
Relationships: Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras & Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 21





	Regret (does not a bad decision make)

“Are you afraid to die, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, his tone flippant and his smile easy.

Enjolras looks steadily up at him from his seat beside him.

“There is no need for fear. Our cause is just, and our revolution is necessary. The people will rise,” he says, and his eyes are like flint, like steel. They do not give way to petty emotions of humans.

Grantaire smiles slowly, his mouth forming into cruel lines that twist the corners of his eyes into mockery.

“You did not say no,”

Enjolras looks out across the room, filled to bursting with lively souls who dance and sing as though this is the last night of their lives. There is a desperation that blurs where the edges of the illusion cannot cover the fear of the future, and Grantaire watches Enjolras instead.

Enjolras will never agree with him, but he is the leader of their group. Grantaire knows this because the flickers at the edge of his masked eyes hold the weight of all of their souls, where all others look to only their own.

“I have no need for fear,” he repeats, lowly, then his eyes dart to meet Grantaire’s, who is still openly studying him. His hand catches hold of Grantaire’s wrist, and the man stills, allowing Enjolras his power.

“I used to fear nothing at all,” Enjolras says in a whisper, and Grantaire finds himself leaning forwards to hear it, drunken smile slipping away at the corners, and the whisper sounds like bestowment.

“I used to fear nothing at all so much as growing old, the world unchanged and myself chained. That self welcomed death if it would prevent him from such a fate,” he says, and smiles up with suddenly tired eyes and sharp teeth.

“And what brings our humble Apollo down to earth with us?” Grantaire jibes, but it doesn’t feel like a joke. His words are unintentionally revealing.

Enjolras tightens his grip and stares into Grantaire’s soul. 

“I think we both know the answer to that,” he smiles grimly, and lets go of Grantaire’s wrist. There is a red mark where his fingers gripped hard enough to bruise in the morning, but there is no pain.

No more pain.

Grantaire isn’t yet sure if he will give his life for  _ Liberte _ , because he has never believed in such shining ideals and naive promises. 

Enjolras blinks. In the bright light of the tavern, his eyes gleam gold, and Grantaire reads nothing but resolve in the liquid silver that overflows from his hard forged soul, slipping over the boundaries of his narrowed eyes and sliding down tanned cheeks scuffed with stubble, because they are young still.

No, Grantaire does not believe in  _ Liberte _ , but he believes in Enjolras. 

He watches Enjolras, and Enjolras watches them all, and nothing is spoken of the nights they stole together away from the cause. They do not matter now.

It is their last night on this earth, and the shadow of death peers in the windows with the slowly-lightening sky.

Grantaire looks down at his red red wrist, and knows he will follow Enjolras into death, not because he is noble and brave, but because he is stubborn and flawed and sharp enough for others to cut themselves on his pointed edges.

He cannot follow an ideal. He cannot follow a god. He can only follow a man.


End file.
